


By The Light of Your Flame

by ladyjonquilinthenorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Death by fluff, Drama, F/M, Family, Jonsa babies - Freeform, Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-23 23:01:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11999742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyjonquilinthenorth/pseuds/ladyjonquilinthenorth
Summary: She had made him happier than a motherless bastard boy growing up in the castle of a great lord had ever hoped to be. Happier than the last living heir to a line of brutality and madness could have ever deserved. But she had taken his cold, lonely, brooding heart and set it afire with the light of her flame.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first real fic (the others were just drabbles) and for now it will just have two chapters but I may continue to add to it in the future. I do not apologize for the unashamed fluff. It's my happy place, so I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I did writing :).

Jon glimpsed the towers of Winterfell as his horse finally crested the top of the last hill. From this angle, the First Keep and Maester’s Turret were both cloaked in a heavy fog, but he was just able to make out the glimmers of light surrounding the walls of the castle, only faintly visible through the sagging mist. Despite the chill of oncoming winter and the late hour, the sight filled Jon with a keen sense of warmth. Somewhere off in the distance, a wolf howled, and he spurred his horse homeward, leaving the three bannermen to bring up the rear.

 

Jon and his party of fifteen had ridden out over a moon’s turn past on their way to Last Hearth to treat with the Umbers and procure supplies for the swiftly approaching winter that promised to blanket the North in snow in a matter of weeks. Ever since the Night King had been defeated and the White Walkers annihilated, the seasons had begun to slowly equalize and return to more stable patterns not seen since the Age of Heros. These changes took time, however, and although winter came only every other year and remained for no more than six moons, the snows were still likely to thickly cover much of the North for the entire duration of the season, as well as to make most roads, most notably, the Kingsroad, arguably the busiest thoroughfare in this part of the continent, completely impassable. It was therefore essential that the great Northern houses ally under the Crown of Winter to share the burden of supplying the common folk with grains, meats, furs, and medicines to see them through the coming storms. 

 

There was also another reason why Jon, in particular, had chosen to ride out with his closest advisors, despite the many demands awaiting him at Winterfell, and that was to attend the marriage of the young Lord Ned to Lady Alys Karstark. This had been a union the King in the North had been very eager to see come to fruition ever since the two had sworn fealty to him before the War for the Dawn, and he knew that an alliance between these two great houses could only bring more benefits to the already growing number of bannermen under his rule. Jon smiled as he recalled the happy faces of the young Lord and his Lady surrounded by guests, upbeat music and exuberant dancing accompanying the joyous laughter no doubt still echoing through the halls of Last Hearth and in his ears. 

 

The blackness settled around them, silent and chilled and all consuming. At this time of year, the air was thick with fog, the torches held aloft by men on horses only faintly guiding the way, and the brisk smells of oncoming winter piercing their nostrils with the sharp clarity of ice.  It was, no doubt, past the hour of the wolf. They should have been home ages ago. In fact, Jon had planned to surprise his family with an early arrival, their business having been completed earlier than he’d expected, but all his arrangements had gone to pot when one of the wagons carrying precious sacks of grain stumbled into a ditch, its axle broken clean in half, and the horse throwing its shoe. By the time they’d attracted the attention of the local blacksmith who then called his son-in-law, the farrier, night had descended around them, and Jon was forced to send most of his party ahead to Winterfell to inform its inhabitants that the King had been delayed and would most likely make his return before the morning of the following day. 

 

They had, by now, approached the castle, taking care to keep all noise to a minimum so as not to wake the sleeping souls within. Davos, ever the considerate, urged his horse forward as they came within proximity of the front gate. He raised his torch to signal to the guards on watch that the king had returned, and within moments, the gate was being raised to admit the small group entry to the front courtyard. 

 

The men descended from their horses as silently as possible before handing the reigns to Willem, a stablehand of three and ten, who had obviously been bullied by the old stablemaster into remaining awake to await the king’s return. Jon nodded a “thank you” to the boy then turning to his men to bid them a good night. 

 

“You did well”, he remarked as he clapped his squire, Torrhen Glover, on the back. “Now get some rest, boy. You deserve it”. To Davos and Daryn Hornwood he stated, “You as well. I regret that such an unforseen delay has kept you from your beds. Go rest, and I will see you on the morrow at noon in my solar to discuss the provisions. Sleep well”. With that, the four men turned to make their ways to their respective, and much-longed for, bedchambers.

 

Jon trudged wearily up the steps, silently vowing to himself to do all in his power to never have his arrival coincide with the hour of the nightingale again. His earlier years had not been kind to him, and he was only now beginning to feel the effects of what his body had withstood all those years ago. The cold and damp outside only exacerbated the bone-deep weariness this most recent foray had caused him. Before he could comprehend where he was going, Jon found his steps directed to the second entrance on the left of the long hall, its door left slightly ajar and a dim light glowing from within, and a familiar white pile of fur dozing soundlessly ahead. 

 

Cautiously, he stepped over his furry companion blocking the door. Ghost had taken to sleeping just outside the nursery from the very first night Aemon had taken up residence upon the birth of his little brother. Ever-vigilant, Ghost would always wake at the sound of a would-be intruder, sniffing the air, red eyes darting alertly from side to side, looking for a possible source of danger, but tonight, he continued to sleep. Master was home. 

 

Jon braced one hand on the door and one on the handle, pushing gently, careful not to let a creak sound, and slipped silently, furs, riding boots,sword belt, and all, inside. 

 

The sight that met him upon entry never failed to make his heart skip a beat, no matter that this must be the hundredth, thousandth time he laid eyes on such a scene. Four figures lay sprawled in their respective beds, limbs entangled in blankets and pillows lying askew, the softest of snores echoing through the room. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light provided by a thick candle burning atop the hearth, Jon could make out that only three of the beds seemed to be occupied. Evidently, the inhabitant of the bed closest to the window had left her designated sheets in favor of her sister’s warm body. Jon moved to the bed holding two forms pressed closely to each other, their black and red curls splayed across the pillow they shared, the other having been tossed carelessly to the floor nearby. He bent to pick it up and replace it under Brienne’s fiery locks, gently cupping her head before setting it down on the restored pillow. The three-year old scrunched up her nose before turning her body to move closer to her sister, her tiny elegant mouth silently clamping open and shut the entire time. Jon was so overcome by the sight that he bent to plant a kiss on the little forehead and remove a stray curl from her cheek. 

 

The girl beside her was lying on her stomach, her black tresses equally as mussed at night as they were during the day. She clutched her pillow to her head with both hands as if her life depended on it, and Jon was sure she would fight the first person to try and remove it from her grasp. Lyanna, his little warrior princess. Just past her fourth nameday, Lyanna was already showing signs of taking after her namesake in spirit, as well as her favorite (and only) aunt Arya, whom she followed around like a shadow, never letting the young woman out of her sight. He dropped a kiss on her still-chubby cheeks before straightening up. 

 

Gods, how he’d missed them!

 

The two beds closest to the door held the male contingent of House Stark. Fully in keeping with his turbulent nature, six-year old Robb was sprawled sideways on his bed, his upper body lying perpendicular to the mattress while his lower half dangled over the edge, curled toes just barely grazing the fur rug beneath. He had dragged the blanket with him and it too lay in a fleecy puddle near the prone little boy. Jon heaved a long-suffering sigh before moving to restore Robb to his bed, adjust his nightshirt, tuck the blanket under his chin and run his hands affectionately through the boy’s unruly auburn locks, so like the uncle’s he’d never meet. 

 

By contrast, the platinum-haired boy lying in the last bed had angled himself arrow-straight, both hands side by side with his body above the covers, and Jon had to marvel yet again at how each of his children’s sleeping habits reflected their behavior when awake. His perfect Aemon, his firstborn, his heir. They had been startled (and slightly horrified, if Jon was being honest) when their first babe had emerged with the white locks and violet eyes of the Targaryens of Valyria. But Bran, all-seeing as he was, had assured them that no coin had been flipped this time. This child was a Stark of Winterfell, and he would yet grow to prove it. Now, as Jon knelt to stroke the blonde head of his eldest son, he chuckled at the thought that Bran had had the right of it. In his short eight years, Aemon had proven himself a worthy heir and successor to the King in the North despite his looks. No, this one was a Stark to the bone. 

 

Jon was about to get up and make for the door, already looking forward to the comfort of his own bed when those violet eyes fluttered open and a whispered “Father?” reached his ears. 

 

“Yes, my sweet boy. I’m here. I’ve come home.”, he murmured back, turning towards his son.

 

“I’ve missed you, Father” came the hushed reply. “I’ve missed you so much. Mother did as well. I’m glad you’re home”.

 

“I’m glad to be here, sweetling, more than you’ll ever know.” Jon knelt to press a kiss to the boy’s hair. “Now, go back to sleep and on the morrow, you will tell me of all I’ve missed in my time away. I hope to hear of how my prince protected his mother and younger siblings in his father’s absence. I love you.”

 

Jon straightened up and made for the door, but before he could step into the hall, a sleepy voice echoed softly from the bed, syllables partially slurred in slumber. 

 

“...love...too…”

 

Jon smiled and exited the room, shutting the door quietly behind him, and finally turning his gaze towards his own chambers. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is Part 2 of my story. Thank you so much for all your lovely comments! This bit turned into something I wasn't intending at all, but it makes for a dramatic change. Hope you enjoy!  
> Stick around, you never now what else might come your way :)

The bedchamber was strangely lit for this time of night, Jon noticed. Several tapers burnt in sconces all along the walls and the crackling hearth was still glowing merrily. His late arrival had been expected and he smiled at the thought, the lingering tendrils of warmth still creeping their way through his tired body. He strode to the large four-poster bed placed in the center of the room fully expecting to find his wife curled up in her usual spot, but as he inched his way closer, he saw that the bed was empty. 

 

An irrational wave of panic gripped him for a moment, his hand already going towards the sword still strapped to his side. Jon glanced wildly around the room, trying to make out the all-too familiar mop of red that had become his refuge, before his eyes lit on the corner of the room and he noticed the figure curled in the overstuffed armchair placed next to the cradle. 

 

He stepped closer, careful not to disturb, and his heart, once again, skipped a beat at the sight that never failed to leave him utterly breathless. Sansa was lying, well, sitting, in the reclining chair, her fiery locks tumbling over the curved sides as her head rested against the top cushion. Her knees were brought up to her chest and Jon could just about make out the tips of her toes peeking out from under the folds of her emerald silk dressing gown. Her left hand was curled on her lap just barely grasping what looked like a small book of daily accounts while the right was thrown to the side and resting in the cradle, palm open and fingers gently, unconsciously, stroking the little head of orange fuzz lying within. 

 

Jon stood, unable to move, eyes drawn to the face he knew and loved so well. After all these years of those blue eyes being the last thing he saw at night and the first thing to greet him with the sun, he had never noticed just what sleep did to those beloved features. Sansa’s face was completely at peace, all worries gone from her brow. Even the shallow creases that had recently appeared around her eyes and mouth, “laugh lines”, Sam had called them, were now gone beyond all trace, evened out in the relaxation of sleep. Looking at her face, one would never guess that this was a woman who had advised rulers and started wars, had been brutalized beyond all reason by men seeking her maidenhead and her titles for their own gain and now bore the scars on her body as everlasting reminders of their desires. She had made and unmade kings, this Queen in the North, faced dragons and White Walkers without so much as the twitch of an eyelid, and now she ruled her kingdom with the kindness and justice born only of years silently watching, observing and learning, waiting for her turn to come. 

 

She was truly beloved by her subjects. They told tales and sang songs of her bravery, beauty, and grace. She was a woman who inspired loyalty in those around her, courage to keep fighting, and devotion to her cause. It was she who was the driving force behind this kingdom. Men had pledged their lives to her at only a glance, yet she continued to rule wisely and ably, always brave, always gentle, always strong. And she was his. 

 

This woman who was able to command armies of seasoned warriors with but a flick of her wrist was his to worship with all his mind, body, and soul. She had made him happier than a motherless bastard boy growing up in the castle of a great lord had ever hoped to be. Happier than the last living heir to a line of brutality and madness could have ever deserved. But she had taken his cold, lonely, brooding heart and set it afire with the light of her flame. She had made an icy fortress into a home, filling it with laughter and lemon cakes and stolen kisses. She had given him five beautiful children, each so different from the other yet so similar in that they held a spark of their beautiful mother within. 

 

These thoughts were not new to Jon. They had been coming for years from the day they had reunited at Castle Black, almost a running list in his mind. But he found himself venturing into these contemplations increasingly frequently ever since baby Alysansa’s birth over three moons before.

**____________________________________________________**

_ The birth had been the longest yet for Sansa, her pains lasting for three nights and two days before the babe had finally been pulled from her, red-faced but silent. For one horrifying moment, they had feared they were too late, but then the babe had been placed at her mother’s breast, finally taking a gulp of air and releasing a mighty howl that reverberated off the walls of the keep, all present had heaved a sigh of relief. Jon had initially not been allowed in the birthing chamber but even the combined forces of Maester Tarly, Gilly, and Brienne could not keep the King in the North from his beloved wife in her time of need.  He had been present for the excruciating birth and Sansa had squeezed his hand throughout. It was a wonder, he later reflected, that he even had a hand left at all. It was many a moment that he had to fight the urge to flee, hardly able to stand the sight of his beloved in pain, but only the pressure on his hand and the imploring, desperate look in her eyes kept him in the room. By the time their little girl entered the world, Sansa had been weakened by all the exertion and tremendous loss of blood. She only had the strength to lay her weak hand on her daughter’s squirming back to quiet her wails before closing her eyes and drifting off into a fitful sleep.  _

 

_ They thought she would never wake.  _

 

_ She slept for four days, her body growing hotter with each passing hour. The fever burned through her and it was all Sam could do to lay cloths soaked in cold water on her brow and spoon milk of the poppy into her mouth. Jon did not leave her side. He didn’t sleep, he didn’t eat. He just sat at her bedside clutching her clammy hand and praying to all gods, both old and new, to spare his dearest Sansa. When his daughter was placed in his arms, it was all he could do to press her small warm body to his and pray that this babe would grow up with a mother who loved and cared for her, unlike he had.  _

 

_ The children were brought in one by one to gaze upon their mother’s face, perhaps for the last time. Aemon entered first with little Brienne’s arms wrapped around his neck and her small form clinging to his. Jon pulled them close to him, wiping the tears from their faces and giving them small encouraging smile he knew they’d disregard. Robb and Lyanna came in next, both stony and sullen, refusing to look up at their father, and not letting their masks fall even when he clasped their little faces between his palms and pressed a long kiss on each of their foreheads. They sat in the chamber until the sun began to set and their nursemaid came to usher them into supper, but Jon remained, waiting for something, anything to change.  _

 

_ Sansa’s fever broke that night as Jon sat, ever-present by her bedside, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, face gaunt with worry, and both tunic and breeches hanging from him in deep folds. But despite his haggard appearance, he took her face in his hands, cupping her cheeks and placing gentle kisses on her forehead, her mouth, her nose, as tears streamed from his eyes and dropped to mingle with the sweat on her brow. _

 

_ By the next morning, Sansa was well enough to sit up and wrap her arms around her older children when they came running into the room with jubilant cries of “Mother!” and proceeded to bounce onto her bed despite all of Maester Sam’s admonitions. She held them close and whispered sweet nothings in their ears, stroking Aemon’s blonde head and thanking him for his part in taking care of the children, thumbing Robb on the nose before pressing her forehead to his, both their eyes crinkling with laughter, and dropping sweet kisses on both her girls’ cheeks. When her youngest daughter was finally brought to her, a babe of four days, Sansa sent all her wetnurses away and began to nurse the child herself, thumb moving back and forth over the babe’s fiery head. As hardened a warrior as he was, Jon gazed on the scene with awe and a slight sense of disbelief, tears always threatening to spill from his eyes. He, a previously nameless bastard, now be in possession of the most beautiful woman as his wife, the family he always dreamed of as well as a kingdom of people who relied on him to lead them justly and wisely. At that moment, Jon had to pinch himself to be sure this was not another dream. _

**____________________________________________________**

He was pulled from his thoughts by a soft whimper coming from the depths of the cradle. He stepped forward, moving quickly to pick the child up, careful not to disturb Sansa as she continued to doze in the chair, but it was too late. She was already stirring where she slept and her eyes slowly fluttered open to take in the scene.

 

“Jon, you’re home”, she said as a sleepy smile slowly made it’s way across her features. “I wanted to wait up for your return but Alys here hasn’t slept for the past two nights. She just-”

 

But Jon cut her off with a firm kiss to the mouth before she could continue.

 

“Hush, sweet girl, I know.” 

 

She vaulted into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs about his waist, her hands fisting into his hair and pulling his tie loose so that black tendrils tumbled into his face . 

 

“I’m so”  _ kiss  _ “glad”  _ kiss  _ “you’re home”  _ kiss.  _

 

He could feel the smile on her lips as he cupped his hands under her to hold her up and made his practiced way to their bed. 

 

“Don’t ever leave me again, Jon Snow”, the words were more a contented sigh than a beseeching request and he lowered her down gently onto the quilt before dropping his swordbelt to the floor and beginning to unlace his breeches. 

 

“Aye, your grace. I promise”. 


End file.
